


Hopes

by dmdiane



Series: Hopes and dreams [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg wants to ask Mycroft out, M/M, POV Greg, Texting, au non-canon, pre-Mystrade, talking is over-rated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 16:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13955160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: After a Sherlock related incident involving a pond sends Sherlock to the hospital, Greg sees Mycroft in the waiting room.





	Hopes

“Bloody fuck, of course.” Greg Lestrade whispers to himself, drags a hand through his hair, and wishes for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow him. Mycroft Holmes is striding down the hallway.

Greg is damp from the pond Sherlock hared through to find the suspect who then stabbed the long git. He’s legitimately filthy and smells funky, a pale echo of the fetid stagnant deeply green and mouldy water. He shudders at the recollection.

True to form, Mycroft’s expression changes whilst he’s still meters down the hall. Blinking, a brief wrinkle at the bridge of his nose and tightening of his lips is quickly masked, but not quickly enough for Greg to miss it.

“Inspector.” The mildly sardonic tone of Mycroft’s, frankly amazing, voice holds the shadow of disdain. The man is too damn subtle for his own good. Or anyone else’s. “I understand Sherlock was injured earlier this afternoon.” Mycroft seems to consider sitting beside Greg for a long moment before moving his impeccably suited self off by several chairs.

Greg massages the back of his neck. He feels like actual pond scum next to the impeccably turned out politician. The charcoal of Mycroft’s suit offsets the gray of his eyes really well. The charcoal suits are typically reserved for high-level meetings or foreign dignitaries. That he even knows this is a thorn in Greg’s pride. But, damnit, the man is noticeable.

He bites back on the need to explain his current state. His knee is bruised and will be stiff in a few hours. He’d love nothing more than a long shower. Whatever Mycroft’s job is, he has access to enough information about the afternoon’s mishap to bring him, un-summoned, to the hospital. Greg is in the waiting room to make sure the boys get home safely. But, Mycroft can doubtless deal with transportation here. Hell, that’s his cover job anyway, isn’t it? Greg chuckles.

Might as well get home. Shame Mycroft most often sees him like this. He casts his mind back a week to a glass of whiskey in Mycroft’s office, catching up on a Sherlock related endeavor with body parts near the Thames. He’d nearly asked Mycroft out on a date. He can’t remember what made him chicken out. Being covered in pond goo waiting on his injured brother isn’t at all inviting. Christ. Enough. He stares at the phone in his hand. He’d started a text to Mycroft when the man showed up. He closes his eyes briefly and then opens them. He types.

_You have no idea how much pleasure I get seeing you._ He touches the arrow to send the message before he can change his mind.

Three chairs to Greg’s left, Mycroft’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Greg hears the buzz. The small sound drills right through his heart and lungs.

Mycroft extracts his phone from an inner pocket with practiced ease glancing at the text notification. His posture, already upright, lengthens upwards. If it’s possible for him to become more still, he has. He blinks at the screen.

Greg types. _We pass by each other with all the intimacy that twelve years gives us with hardly a personal word. I probably shouldn’t speak to you. Should probably just think of you when I’m alone or in my dreams._ He taps send.

Mycroft’s phone vibrates in his hand and he startles.

Greg glances away, hears Mycroft’s intake of breath, types furiously. _I can wait. Have waited. When we see each other I can admire your eyes, your smile, your wit and hope you get some small pleasure from seeing me, too._ He sends.

Mycroft doesn’t flinch this time. He scrolls. Twice. His eyes stay on his phone’s screen.

Because, Holmeses aside, too much thinking isn’t always useful, Greg types. _I’m afraid I may’ve missed a chance. I already don’t want to lose you. Please tell me what to do now._ Send. Buzz. Breathe.

Greg glances over when he hears Mycroft typing. Greg’s phone dings and he reads. _You are, perhaps, the bravest man I’ve ever had the privilege to know._ His heart squirms and his breath catches. Before he can answer his phone dings again. _Please, don’t be afraid._

Saving the messages, Greg pockets his phone. It takes more courage than he’ll admit to later to turn his head and wait until Mycroft meets his gaze. The gray eyes are rounded with anxiety and something that looks like hope. That’ll do. “You’ll make sure the boys get home alright?”

Mycroft nods.

“Goodnight, Mycroft. I’ll see you soon.” Greg makes himself stand. After some paracetamol, a shower and some food, anything might be possible.


End file.
